Hopkins Prairie fire leaves plenty of questions

A feller buncher, driven by a VanWagner Timber Inc. employee, cuts down trees on the Hopkins Prairie Thurdsday afternoon, August 29, 2013. The U.S. Forest Services has contracted the company to remove burnt and live trees from the area since the fire in March. Residents of Sportsman's Haven I, spoke about living in the Ocala National Forest, six-months after the Hopkins Prairie fire that leveled about a half a dozen homes and burned about 2000 acres on March 2, 2013.

Last Modified: Tuesday, September 3, 2013 at 7:55 p.m.

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The deck becomes an observation tower as she turns to survey the broad expanse of charred, brown landscape across the limerock street where the Ocala National Forest used to begin.

Lunsford attempts to explain the behavior of a wildfire that roared through the area south of Salt Springs six months ago. It cut a path of destruction that seemed maddeningly random. Or maybe it wasn't, she says.

She motions to a swath of gray earth and rubble where a neighbor's home was incinerated on the edge of the forest.

"The only thing we can think is that the houses that were most vulnerable to fire were lost. But, then, that's not even true because that house," she says, motioning to an adjacent home on stilts, "wasn't touched. So I don't know."

Half a year after the Hopkins Prairie fire raced east through the forest, brushed up against several rural subdivisions and jumped State Road 19 before dying out at the edge of Lake George, little is known about the incident.

The origin of the fire is unclear, for starters.

The Florida Division of Forestry will say only that a campfire "got away," but the U.S. Forest Service is handling the investigation and declined to discuss its findings until it is finished.

Also unknown is why the fire behaved the way it did.

It was on a collision course with Sportsman's Haven but didn't land a direct blow. It skirted the perimeter, throwing off enough heat and spewing enough embers to ignite a handful of structures.

Unaccountably, some of the homes 20 or 30 feet from the blazing tree line weren't even singed, while others that seemed to be set back a safe distance from the inferno erupted in flames. In all, a dozen homes, sheds and workshops were reduced to ashes.

Lunsford notes that her home was untouched — except for some heat damage to the side of a shed — but her next-door neighbor's small vacation home was destroyed.

Fire officials were so sure that the community would be consumed that they evacuated the residents and pulled fire crews out of the subdivision rather than risk getting caught in the warren of chalky trails that the residents call roads.

"There's never a time when any Marion County Fire Rescue crew member doesn't want to be out there saving property," spokeswoman Jessica Greene said. "But there are times when, for their safety, that's just not something the department can allow. And unfortunately, the most recent example of that is the Prescott, Ariz., firefighters who died fighting a wildfire, so the danger is very real."

But the fire didn't overwhelm the tiny subdivision.

It could have been because days before the fire broke out, the U.S. Forest Service plowed the trees and brush back 30 feet or so from the edge of the subdivision, which it routinely does around homes in the forest.

Or, as Forest Area Supervisor Butch Hall said, it could have been that the 30 mph winds driving the fire eastward changed direction at the exact right moment, steering the conflagration around the outside of the community.

It also could have been because a couple of residents refused to evacuate and fought the fire with garden hoses, dousing hot spots and doing just enough to keep the blaze at bay.

"I wasn't leaving," said 76-year-old Frank Myles. "This is my home. I was up until 11 o'clock walking around the neighborhood fighting fires.

"If my house burned down," he said, sticking a crooked index finger into the roof of his mouth like the barrel of a gun, "I was going to go ba-boom. Me and my dogs and the cat."

The residents of Sportsman's Haven are sure about one thing. They insist the fire originated at the nearby Rainbow Family gathering, a two-week event that draws modern-day hippies from across the United States. The event was in its final day when the blaze erupted.

"Even if (investigators) can't prove it, they know it was the Rainbows," said Francis Lunsford, Maurine's husband. "They should not let them come back next year. Maybe they can't put it on paper officially, but they know it."

<p>It's a recent Thursday morning, and Maurine Lunsford is draping freshly washed pillow cases over the railing of her deck to dry in the Florida sun.</p><p>The deck becomes an observation tower as she turns to survey the broad expanse of charred, brown landscape across the limerock street where the Ocala National Forest used to begin.</p><p>Lunsford attempts to explain the behavior of a wildfire that roared through the area south of Salt Springs six months ago. It cut a path of destruction that seemed maddeningly random. Or maybe it wasn't, she says.</p><p>She motions to a swath of gray earth and rubble where a neighbor's home was incinerated on the edge of the forest.</p><p>"The only thing we can think is that the houses that were most vulnerable to fire were lost. But, then, that's not even true because that house," she says, motioning to an adjacent home on stilts, "wasn't touched. So I don't know."</p><p>Half a year after the Hopkins Prairie fire raced east through the forest, brushed up against several rural subdivisions and jumped State Road 19 before dying out at the edge of Lake George, little is known about the incident.</p><p>The origin of the fire is unclear, for starters.</p><p>The Florida Division of Forestry will say only that a campfire "got away," but the U.S. Forest Service is handling the investigation and declined to discuss its findings until it is finished.</p><p>Also unknown is why the fire behaved the way it did.</p><p>It was on a collision course with Sportsman's Haven but didn't land a direct blow. It skirted the perimeter, throwing off enough heat and spewing enough embers to ignite a handful of structures.</p><p>Unaccountably, some of the homes 20 or 30 feet from the blazing tree line weren't even singed, while others that seemed to be set back a safe distance from the inferno erupted in flames. In all, a dozen homes, sheds and workshops were reduced to ashes.</p><p>Lunsford notes that her home was untouched — except for some heat damage to the side of a shed — but her next-door neighbor's small vacation home was destroyed.</p><p>Fire officials were so sure that the community would be consumed that they evacuated the residents and pulled fire crews out of the subdivision rather than risk getting caught in the warren of chalky trails that the residents call roads.</p><p>"There's never a time when any Marion County Fire Rescue crew member doesn't want to be out there saving property," spokeswoman Jessica Greene said. "But there are times when, for their safety, that's just not something the department can allow. And unfortunately, the most recent example of that is the Prescott, Ariz., firefighters who died fighting a wildfire, so the danger is very real."</p><p>But the fire didn't overwhelm the tiny subdivision.</p><p>It could have been because days before the fire broke out, the U.S. Forest Service plowed the trees and brush back 30 feet or so from the edge of the subdivision, which it routinely does around homes in the forest.</p><p>Or, as Forest Area Supervisor Butch Hall said, it could have been that the 30 mph winds driving the fire eastward changed direction at the exact right moment, steering the conflagration around the outside of the community.</p><p>It also could have been because a couple of residents refused to evacuate and fought the fire with garden hoses, dousing hot spots and doing just enough to keep the blaze at bay.</p><p>"I wasn't leaving," said 76-year-old Frank Myles. "This is my home. I was up until 11 o'clock walking around the neighborhood fighting fires.</p><p>"If my house burned down," he said, sticking a crooked index finger into the roof of his mouth like the barrel of a gun, "I was going to go ba-boom. Me and my dogs and the cat."</p><p>The residents of Sportsman's Haven are sure about one thing. They insist the fire originated at the nearby Rainbow Family gathering, a two-week event that draws modern-day hippies from across the United States. The event was in its final day when the blaze erupted.</p><p>"Even if (investigators) can't prove it, they know it was the Rainbows," said Francis Lunsford, Maurine's husband. "They should not let them come back next year. Maybe they can't put it on paper officially, but they know it."</p>